Sovereign
by shattered petal
Summary: She balances herself perfectly, the sword sharp and pointing. When he sees her, he doesn't see a woman, he doesn't see an Armstrong. He sees a Queen. Blood drips from the blade, her military uniform is stained with her victory, but her eyes are fragile, almost childish. -Miles/Olivier


**Title**: Sovereign  
**Genres**: Romance/Angst  
**Rating**: T  
**Couple**: Miles/Olivier

* * *

There is nothing purer and brighter than her eyes.

While they reveal emotions which constantly scar the heart, her eyes are young, glowing, but never calm. Blue, naïvety. Always, the fierce warrior shall wear a mask, but her irises tell a story. Stories of battles, of pain and joy. _They_ forget her age, _they_ forget she is someone's child, _they_ never see her eyes.

_They_ forget she is, and always has been, human.

Blood trickles from gaping wounds which sting and transform into scabs. Dressed in blue, a darker shade than her eyes, no one observes the mistakes and battles scattered across her flesh. No one looks past the blade which is delicately balanced in her grip. For they fear her, they do not _know_ her, and so fear.

Only one is immune, and a fire burns, crashing into the ice and destroying the chill. Red and blue create an ugly monster. Yet, despite their differences, their peculiarities, both discover a thread, smooth and strong, guiding them to somewhere they recognised: war. He has suffered many, frowned upon by the family he was born into, and cursed at by those he shares blood with. The boy has always been pushed aside, viewed as the Devil.

Never does he truly know how many wounds she endured, until much later. A bullet has been shot into her side, and there's no time to call for medical help. So, even if he loathes her, spits at her, she has faith in him to _aid_ her. At first, he scowls, for he will not help a race which ruined his life and family. Then, he realises, she is _not_ of that race. Only one blood travels within her body, her name is engraved, considered the heart of the Amestrian race, but she is not _like_ them.

It isn't the bullet wound which shocks him. Her muscles are sore and tense, bones exhausted but powerful. Her flesh is soft, old and new injuries ripping away at her beautiful, innocent body. She does not tremble when she is vulnerable to the freeze, and is aware his dark, crimson eyes are concerned about the other wounds, her _past_.

When he looks at her again, her eyes glow. It is almost alien how light, even angelic, her irises are, and he is intoxicated. Not a single being has studied her gaze, drank in the steady, cool, yet light eyes, like he has. Never. It is a fatal mistake.

Over time, they grow closer, and the scars begin to make more sense. He has been nicknamed a "Knight", always seen beside his Queen, always seen protecting her. Unbeknownst to the world, though, her aching mind is set on the enemy, for he usually fails to perceive them. Ever since his arrival at the Fort, she has fought against men who snarl at her, who are disgusted by her awful, unusual, _right_ ways.

An Ishvalan does not belong with an Amestrian. They are too different. Neither race are capable of standing beside the other, as one. It is an impossible duo. And when they finally see such horrors take place, they load the gun, and shoot. What they don't know is that she has carried a shield since she was a little girl, aware of the bullets fired at her, aware of the taunts and laughter, aware of the rejection.

To them, she is a woman. A being incapable of fighting, a being incapable of stepping out of the house, a being incapable of knowing her place. To them, she is an Armstrong. A girl following her mother's footsteps, a girl prepared to please a future husband, a girl ready to breed, a girl in search of nothing. To them, she is a wreck. A disgrace upon the family name. She is slowly, but completely and utterly destroying what chances her parents offered her to become a lady, to become a respected object.

They mocked her during the academy, hassled her during desperate times, pushed her away whenever she spoke, hated her. How she climbed the ladder, how the promotions hung over her head, they were too quick, and she frightened them. She became untouchable, cold and ruthless, hating the men who hated her. Never once did she retaliate though. Never once did she give into sweet vengeance.

Because she is a Wall. A barrier, a protection. Something impregnable, fierce, powerful, a weapon. Misunderstood. The Wall is always attacked, but not a single brick crumbles to the ground. And when this creature follows behind her, shoulders high, wearing blue uniform, an uproar echoes throughout the country.

The ground, the people, break beneath her feet. Never does she fall.

What he feels for her isn't Love. It is much more dangerous than that.

Rebuilding his lost home tires him, but he has learnt to never give into his enemy, to always walk forwards. Look ahead, never drown in his own sorrows and collapse into a hole of misery. A soldier –– a _real_ soldier –– does not stop to worry about those he Loves. A real soldier continues, gun in hand, prepared to protect. To guard.

Yet it comes to a point when there is only one specimen on earth which he Loves, which he desires. It comes to a point when he no longer needs her. It comes to a point when he_wants_ her. And that–– _that_ frightens him.

The tables are turned and she becomes the alien once her feet touch the sand. He knows she has been an alien to everyone, though. Only those who reside in the Fort recognise her as a lioness, a being. But not entirely human. They have never witnessed her cry, never witnessed her laugh happily, never witnessed her scream.

What surprises him is that, even though she is different, even though she doesn't appear right, his people love her. They welcome her, they are _glad_ to see her, if not _relieved_. He doesn't know how she does it. What spell she has cast. Without even trying, she becomes equal. _Finally_. Finally she is treated properly. In many ways, she is a glowing orb, a beauty, a vessel of magnificence and she fascinates them.

Unfortunately not everyone is eager to become one with the differing race. Some officers mutiny, and threaten the Ishvalans, weapons in hand. They fire. It cannot be counted how many are killed, it cannot be understood the amount of anger which flourishes through the cracking countries from then on.

At first he thinks he's alone. That no one will feel mutual with the amount of rage rushing through him.

What they see is a hurricane. A blur of blood, of blue. The blade slices through flesh easily, buries itself into the body, stabbing the heart, defeating pride and hate. They taste poison, an anger they've never encountered before, and they are _nothing_ at her hands. She is much too quick, like lightning. A flash. A monster.

Inhumane.

For now, the enemy is defeated, but he knows they will be back. Hungry for more.

She balances herself perfectly, the sword sharp and pointing. When he sees her, he doesn't see a woman, he doesn't see an Armstrong. He sees a Queen. Blood drips from the blade, her military uniform is stained with her victory, but her eyes are fragile, almost childish. She will always be the little girl.

But no longer is she an obedient, timid girl. Now, she is a wild thing, conjuring tornados, freezing enemies in her wake, she is becoming much, much too powerful. And he fears she will transform into a tyrant. A being of greed, a blind creature who can only watch themselves grin in a cracked mirror.

He waits... waits for the innocence to fade from her eyes, for her clear eyes to become foggy and unreadable. He waits, desperate to not lose her, and he clings on, hoping,_begging_ internally that she will not fall corrupt.

For once, he has underestimated her. Olivier Armstrong is in control. She is a Goddess unwilling to be defeated. Even to herself.

Their bond never tumbles. She is confident around him, comfortable around him: she jokes and teases, even smiles, and her smiles are bright and make her face glow. She is sometimes too bright for him to see. Too innocent. And he can't lose her. He can't ever lose her. He can't let his Queen vanish into dust.

A part of him knows that she will, though. One day.

There will be a time when the blade drops from her grip, and her knees meet the ground. Never will her eyes express surrender, however.

Her jokey, calm, confident manner towards him intensifies. She arrives at a meeting concerning the Restoration a minute late, and he is waiting for her, not angry, or amused. Just waiting. But he is happy to see her. Thankful his constant is always there, for him. A couple of the other men in the room look at her, inspect her, they admire her from afar.

Then he smirks, and he's still smirking when she abuses her position and kisses his cheek, and he turns his head quick enough so their lips meet. It's a quick, short touch. And he thinks she even giggles mischievously when finding her seat.

Her lips are cold. So cold. Too cold.

_Freezing._

What happens then on, neither expect. Nights in Ishval are always warm, always peaceful. He secretly prefers the quiet to the raging storms in the North. Because he is finally home. Ishval is where he belongs, and they both know she will be returning to Briggs alone. The Knight has resigned his post. Removed the armour and handed it back to her.

She knows he will become something big. A commander himself. She knows his plans: he wants to build an army in Ishval, a defence of his own. As his former leader, as a friend, she is proud of him, even a little proud of herself. But a loss melts away the ice, and her clear eyes turn watery and hazy. She doesn't cry, but he can see her heart slowly, yet gradually shattering. It has become too much: losing.

Late, when all the workers have gone to sleep, rested their aching heads, he isn't alone. She tastes of the strawberries he gave her only a couple of hours ago. She smells of gunpowder, of battle and death. She is firm, never trembling at his touch. And she is gentle. While a frightening warrior who can swing a sword mercilessly, she is gentle with him.

There is no need for violence. The war is over.

She guides him where they need to go, leads him–– she has always led. His lips kiss her body, and she whispers his name.

The girl is carved perfectly, her golden hair trailing past her bare shoulders, his hands at her strong hips, and she is soft to touch. So soft and wonderful. She isn't a frightening creature anymore. She's a woman, a lady, and, in the end, he realises that's all she ever has been.

Afterwards when he thinks she's fallen asleep, a gift no man has ever observed before, he continues to hold her, eyes wide open, arms around her, constantly watching, constantly alert, constantly prepared to pounce at the enemy.

He never sleeps.

'Miles...?'

Recently, her voice has a lighter tone to it, but only when alone with him. If he does not face her, he could easily mistake her as a teenager. She is terribly young, anyway. Too young. Her soul is so damaged, and she is barely a woman yet.

The pen drops from his hand. He inhales. 'Why did you do it?'

A clock ticks nearby, echoes in his ears, reminds him how short their time is together. His commander will soon return to the battlefield, will fight for what she believes in, and he will not be there to protect her.

... really, he hadn't done his duty very well in the first place.

She doesn't require protection.

Of course she knows what he's referring to. A choice she made years ago, when he could do nothing but sneer at her appearance, hate her gender, loathe her blood. She had accepted him, tolerated his horrible attitude towards her, considered him as one. Something no one had been able to do for him.

There is silence, and he looks at her.

This time her expression isn't hard. The mask has been removed. Her eyes are curious, but still just as bright, just as playful.

'How could I not?'

He wants to scream at her, to shake her and understand why she does what she does, why she forces herself through Hell and back. He wants her to just look at him, he wants her beautiful eyes only on him, and no one else. He wants her all to himself.

However Miles is a gentleman. He doesn't touch her.

'All my life I've been frowned upon; I've been feared. To find someone who isn't afraid of you, to find someone just as broken–– you needed my help, Miles, and, I guess, I needed yours.'

Swallowing, he realises his throat is sore. A sigh escapes his lips and he stands to his feet. It's funny that he is actually a lot taller than her. He has to look down at her, almost as if she is his underling.

Olivier presses a hand to his cheek, and he closes his eyes, hiding. It amazes him how she can live in such heat, yet her body remains cold. As if she is constantly repelling warmth, Love, knowing its betrayal.

Then she kisses his lips, once, but this kiss is a promise, a promise of a thousand tomorrows, of silent loyalty and a strong bond. Almost naïve, but blue and bright and clear. So very clear, but empty, as empty as the skies above which rain constant plagues and illnesses upon the two dreaded, but fierce lovers.

He will forever worship the Queen.


End file.
